When to the meadows the young green comes back,
And swelling buds put forth on every bough, 5
With wild-wood odours on the delicate air;
Ah, then, in that so lovely earth wilt thou
With all thy beauty love me all one way,
And make me all thy lover as before?
Lo, where the white-maned horses of the surge, 10
Plunging in thunderous onset to the shore,
Trample and break and charge along the sand!
XCIV
Cold is the wind where Daphne sleeps,
That was so tender and so warm
With loving,—with a loveliness
Than her own laurel lovelier.
Now pipes the bitter wind for her, 5
And the snow sifts about her door,
While far below her frosty hill
The racing billows plunge and boom.
XCV
Hark, where Poseidon’s
White racing horses
Trample with tumult
The shelving seaboard!
Older than Saturn, 5
Older than Rhea,
That mournful music,
Falling and surging
With the vast rhythm
Ceaseless, eternal, 10
Keeps the long tally
Of all things mortal.